


I'm Looking for You in the Woods, Tonight

by FemoralGlyph



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: BBC Sherlock AU, Bat!John, Fawnlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, M/M, Teenlock, forest bbs, human sized batjohn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:03:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FemoralGlyph/pseuds/FemoralGlyph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A friendship is formed between young Fawnlock, a forest creature captured by a travelling circus, and young John, a forest creature raised by humans when John attempts to free Fawnlock from his chains. As they grow older, wiser, and perhaps more curious, their friendship blossoms to new lengths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strange Beginnings

Young Harriet Watson, just turned five years old, accompanied her mother one fall evening to their town’s outskirts to collect wild flowers for their dinner table. The small township did not have a flower shop and but in the vast fields that grew between where the humans dwelled and the forests began there was an abundance of seasonal flora. The young, blond-haired cherub of a girl sang and danced her way through the tall grass, always in ignorance of her mother’s warning calls whenever she fell out of sight or ventured too far. It was a hard time going for the young, inexperienced woman to have such an adventurous daughter and she was certain that her child would be the cause of many headaches to come. It was silent for too long before the young mother looked up from her basket of wild flowers to find that Harriet had disappeared.

“Harriet, little love?”

No locks bounced above the grass which grew slightly taller than the toddler, no gigging or playful shrieking carried in the wind, simply silence. Curses and myths filled the woman’s head, creatures which might have grabbed her baby and claimed her for the forest now.  
  
“Harriet!”  
  
Dropping her basket, she ran in the direction that she had last seen her daughter bounding away. Stories that her own mother told her by the fireside during long winter nights rang out into her head — forest spirits, guardians of nature and the elements, fierce and amiable alike but both never to be meddled with. Shape-shifters and wizards, creatures of the night and speaking animals, that found refuge in the windswept trees. And all who wouldn’t like anything more than to spirit away a young impressionable mind to corrupt or even just to make an easy meal of. She ran faster.  
  
“Harriet Watson, where on earth are you, child?!”  
  
A small noise came echoing across the field just to her left and then a small blond head popped up above the grass. Harriet was hopping frantically, waving an arm at her mother. “Mama’n! Mama’n, come look!”  
  
The mother Watson was by her daughter’s side in moments, gasping and ready to give the child a firm talking to, though those never really worked on the young girl with such energy and imagination. When she did reach her baby, she wrapped her arms protectively around the small body, pulling her into a tight possessive embrace but Harriet wiggled and fussed all through it and batted away her mother’s hands as she checked her only child for any harm to her soft skin.  
  
“Mama’n, stop! Put me down! I’ve found my new baby brother!”  
  
This made the young mother pause immediately, admittedly almost dropping the toddler. “You, what? Harriet, remember what your father has said to you about spinning lies and stories.”  
  
“No, Mama’n, I’m not lying, put me down. Put me down!” She wiggled from her mother’s grasp and plopped to the damp grass once again. Taking the woman’s index and middle finger firmly in her small fist, Harriet led her mother back a few steps and to the left, all the while explaining that she’d already named the baby John in honor of her friend, John Hamish, who had fallen into the well last winter and that the baby could share her room and use her old crib. Her mother stayed silent mostly due to the lack of pauses in Harriet’s speech but also partly due to shock. A baby? In the barrier between the sheltered world of humans and the dangerous world outside the safety of their locked doors and dirt roads? How could a wee babe even survive a few hours away from civilization?  
  
The pair stopped suddenly at an abandoned fox hole at which point, young Harriet got on her hands and knees to stick her head beneath the earth. The mother Watson let out a squeak and grabbed for her daughter but not before the rambunctious child had managed to get a good half of her body down the darkened hole in the ground. Tugging at Harriet’s waist, her mother let out a grunt and pulled her daughter and a small bundle free from the ground, landing to sit and cradle the load with a huff.  
  
Blinking, absolutely stunned, the mother Watson watched as her daughter unraveled the lump which was wrapped up in some kind of a blanket of sorts made out of soft, autumn leaves to reveal a wriggling infant, not one year old, blinking against the sudden light change from where he was hidden below the ground.  
  
Harriet squealed and pecked the baby on the cheek, explaining to him that he was her new baby brother, John, while her mother stared in horror at the infant. His wiggling toes and fingers were those of a human, but his little arms were connected to his sides by a thin sheet of skin and a few thin bones which bowed the sheet of matter together as a bat’s wings might. He looked up at the woman with large blue eyes and mimicked Harriet’s smile, warmth spreading through his small face, and swiveled his small cupped, pointed ears in her direction. Harriet shrieked at the adorable action which caused the baby to flinch and press his ears back to bury deep in his straight blond hair.  
  
“Harriet…” the young mother hesitated, regarding the baby, regarding John, again for a moment as he reached for the girl’s long hair to grab, as a human child might, as Harriet had done so many times to her as a baby. Something warmed the mother Watson at that, and though caution still remained it was fading. Perhaps like the field that he was found in, this baby was not a danger to humans, though it did not particularly belong to them.  
  
“Yes, Mama’n?”  
  
“Go and fetch the basket for our flowers, little love, I have a spring shawl stowed beneath the flowers we picked. Poor little John will get cold all alone out here without proper covering.”  
  
The girl’s smile spread so far across her face it looked like her cheeks might split. Handing the squirming forest child to her mother, Harriet sprung up. “Of course, Mama’n! I’ll be right back!”  
  
Cautiously, the mother Watson cradled the forest creature against her body and he reacted like any human baby, curling into her warmth and grabbing at her blouse with short curled fingers. Reaching for one of his tiny hands, she stretched out his arm to see the true span of his waxy wings only to find that on this side, his left, there was a rather large hole ripped in the delicate skin webbing. The baby recoiled from the extended motion, burying his face into the crook of her bent arm and swiveling his small furry ears as if searching for her voice, searching for a reassurance or comfort.  
  
Harriet returned quickly with the basket of flowers, shawl in hand. She bounced from one foot to the other in excitement as her mother wrapped the cloth carefully around the chubby little body so that only his face peaked out from the bundle. They would have to be careful to hide those ears.  
  
“There you are, John!” Harriet exclaimed as her mother stood from the damp grass with the baby gurgling in her arms. “All set and ready to go home!” The girl skipped ahead, swinging the basket in one hand and grabbing at the tips of the long grass with the other.  
  
“Yes,” said the young mother, pausing to reach down and cup the child’s face with her free hand. The cloth at the top and sides of his head shifted as his pinned ears attempted to swivel towards the low, cooing sound of her voice and the small motion brought a smile to her lips. “You’re going home, John.”


	2. Destined Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Included is a short background to young Sherlock's capture, older Batjohn (kind of), and their first meeting.  
> Enjoy!

When a light snow blanketed the leave-thatched ground, it was clear that Sherlock was horribly lost. It took one misplaced foot and he was floored and muttering to himself, flustered and now covered in snow. A shiver ran down his spine. He had never been totally on his own before — what luck — but for his young age he supposed that it wasn’t uncommon. Deciding to make the most of this terrifying experience, he began to catalog the surviving early-winter fauna; it calmed his fluttering heart. Note: distain for his traitorous body. More suddenly than his apparent state of misplacement were the pair of strong arms which encircled him and lifted him higher off the ground he had ever been — over the shoulder of a rather well muscled man. He called out in the language of the forest, demanding to be released, and then gradually pitifully sobbing for his absent brother. His words had no effect upon the human and so this was a taste of capture.

Hiking back to camp, the Russian knife-thrower, Hugh, came across something so rare that no circus, to date, has ever successfully captured, let alone put on display. A forest creature, one which looked quite lost and rather disgruntled, about the size of a seven-year-old, wandering some low shrubbery. The knife-thrower, Hugh, thought nothing of grabbing the little thing and carrying it off as a prize to show to the ringmaster, who would undoubtedly award him with a bigger tent for the summer seasons. The poor creature, a fawn by nature and mostly human in shape, struggled fruitlessly in the man’s toned arms, bleating helplessly for aid which never heard nor came.

Hugh was indeed rewarded greatly for his small capture and the ringmaster, Sir Bernard, immediately handed him his salary for the month and the next to come, which was quite something considering he usually tried his hardest to make his employees to forget that he had to pay them in the first place. The small forest creature was placed in petit chains for the time being, anchored around his soft ankles and wrists, dragging behind him, as he was lead around the camp for display. The chains belonged to Sir Bernard, said to have bound a creature of sea and land, a siren, to the land so that a foolish man might marry her. That story was told in laughter and spike around the campfire, but it rang some truth — creatures of nature could be held, or even hurt, with a certain magic or rare item. Sir Bernard made sure to have an extensive collection of both.

As soon as she saw Sherlock’s helpless figure being paraded around from tent to tent, the circus’ bearded lady, Rhonda, took a sudden liking to him. She was the first to speak to him like a human, ask him questions, his name, where his mother was. At the time, timid and scared under Bernard’s critical gaze and weakened by the chains, he answered none of her questions but merely blinked innocently at her with his large, knowing blue eyes and was promptly hustled from her tent. A day or two after his capture though, he returned to her.

Rhonda sat at her desk of mirrors to apply the morning’s eye shadow when the forest creature slipped between the folds of her tent and into the dull warmth within.

“Little one!” She gasped spinning in her chair and immediately taking him in her arms. “Have they given you nothing warm to wear? Your toes will fall off by the end of the day!” He shook his curly haired head once and made a face, which could have implied a small amount of insult. He was, after all, still a creature of the forest, born in the spring and sheltered in the darker seasons by his thick winter coat, but he didn’t resist the urge to burrow deeper into the woman’s warm embrace. She was larger and warm, she reminded him of Moosecroft.

She studied his darker markings, a single faint ring encircling each forearm, darker patches of fur capping each shoulder, before reaching for petit dark brown fingers knotted in the furs, which donned the collar of her winter shawl. The iron chains that lightly bound his wrists and ankles clicked against her jewelry as she lifted the back of his small hand to her lips to give it a meaningful peck. “What is a creature like you doing in a place like this?”

His comically large deer ears swiveled to greet the sounds but then pinned back against the sides of his head as he again remembered his capture and hence mishandling. Nuzzling his face into the woman’s bearded neck, not really paying attention if his stumpy antlers poked her uncomfortably, he spoke. “You must be human then, like the rest of them.”

She laughed at that, reaching to stroke a hand over the mess of dark curls at the back of his head. “Yes, I am not like you, though I have fur enough to pass, I believe.” Her chuckles displaced his resting place and he resituated to bury his face in the short forest of dark hair under the woman’s chin.

“My toes will not fall off, by the way.”

Rhonda simply hummed, stroking his white-spotted back like a mother soothing her child from a nightmare.

“But these,” he lifted a hand to jingle the chain links that bound him, looking at them with disgust twinged with fear as he had never encountered them before and did not know what to call them.

“Chains, little one.” Rhonda nudged gently. “Iron chains to keep you bound to this place.”

“Yes, chains, ” he choked curtly, “they grow cold with the snow and burn hot and cold through my winter coat. They hurt like morning frost and wildfire at the same time. Oh please—” he pulled a captured hand from her grasp and opened his wrists to her. “Please take them off, please please, make them release me, I —.” A short sob cut him off, his blue eyes filling with salt water. “I _told_ Moosecroft, I told him I’d get lost! My map of the forests in this region isn’t complete yet and he _knew_ that but he told me to go home anyway.”

“Moosecroft?”

“My idiot older brother,” he collapsed back into her embrace with a sigh and wiped the back of his hand against the darker patch of fur around his eyes to rub away the tear that had dampened the fur there. Crying didn’t seem to work on this woman. He would tell himself that the tears were fabricated for manipulation’s sake, but he would be lying a little bit. The chains were indeed painful, excruciating even, out in the cold. “He’s practically the guardian for the whole of this hemisphere’s forests. He was taking me with him because mummy has to look after father’s territories since he was shot by hunters last winter.”

“Gracious.”

“Yes, well…” He grew silent, wondering when his brother would stop messing around with Elkstrade to notice that he was being held captive. Honestly, it wasn’t even spring yet, but Moosecroft still made sure to be timely in his courting.

“What is your name, little one?”

He blinked at the woman, so warm and loving so suddenly, and hesitated for a moment to trust so soon. The last time he had done something like that was when he was much younger and his mother had spent hours pulling quills buried deep in his skin. The poor porcupine was driven from his home territory. The bearded woman combed her fingers through his curls, pushing them back from his forehead like his mother used to and a small, helpless shiver ran down his spine.

“Sherlock,” he said.

 

\---

 

“John!”

The forest creature, short for his age, skidded to a stop, knitted poncho bellowing in the blizzard winds around him. Turning in a comically cautious manner, acting ridiculous for his group of friends who giggled at his blatant defiance, John blinked innocently behind him at his mother. His small bat ears had perked up at the mention of his name but he flattened them so that they stuck out at either side of his head in the way that he knew made his mother’s heart melt, even just slightly. “Yes, Mama’n?”

Hand on hip and foot tapping impatiently, his mother was having none of it. “For god’s sake, John Watson, you get back here this instant and put on your winter cloths. You’ll freeze your tail off!” The demand was barked with finality — the mother Watson had lost her innocence in motherhood when she decided to rear a little boy.

“But, Mama’n, I’m not col-“

“John. Hamish. Watson. You will march your bottom right back into this house and put on a proper coat, hat, and scarf, or so help me, you won’t have ears tomorrow!”

The boy winced and his friends chuckled; this was the way that these dramatics always went. Mother Watson was a fierce woman, conditioned through need, as she raised rebellious children. John loved the woman though, and bowed his head, shuffling back into their quaint home. His friends called out to him, assuring him that they’d meet up at the circus when he was dressed. The cottage door slammed shut.

John’s mother had had a little trouble introducing him to the small town at first, another reason why she gained such a heated temperament which guaranteed that she would snap at any indication that one of her children were being threatened. The forest creature, named John by her daughter, was an angel of an infant, far easier than Harriet who was prone to wander off as soon as she learned the concept. He seemed to know that he was a burden and tried his hardest not to cry out or whine. The young mother was quickly attached to the small bundle of a child, cooing lovingly at him whenever his radiant blue eyes met hers. The village patrons were convinced that she was under a spell or a hex and more than one attempt was made to extract the infant from her home, hence came her rebirth — a tiger mother. She knew her stuff too and used stories and myths told to her by her mother to counter every claim they made. According to the village healer, John was a Demon, looking to steal her heart, the blacksmith a Night-Creature, ready to bring chaos at any moment, and the butcher a foul Pestor, looking to burrow deep beneath her skin.

Thankfully the village children were much more welcoming, often inventing games which featured and even hinged on her son’s odd gifts, which was a relief because she had had some trouble with Harriet and the other children her age. Boys seemed to be looking for friends to roughhouse with while girls seemed only to want to hurt one another. It was a saving grace for John because as he grew, none of his friends seemed to mind the gradual darkening and thickening of the fur on his hands and feet, the sharpening of his fingers, toes, and teeth.

            The mother Watson tersely brushed the snow and dampness from her son’s hair and poncho, muttering to him about pneumonia and sickness, but the truth was he had never felt the cold which was described to him, at least not to the caliber that his friends talked about. They whined about not feeling their noses as their fingers turned blue from the cold while he remained sufficiently less clothed and still rather warm. Sure, he felt the snow and it’s bite, but it never pierced the furnace in his belly, at least not for long. His mother still worried though.

            “You can’t keep doing this, John. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you to the sickness that took Maribel’s son. Did you see Freiz during his bed rest? I still swear that that child had a demon within him, better that he not suffer through it, I suppose.” She sighed as she buttoned up John’s coat, specifically fashioned by her own hand to accommodate for his wings and tail. His mother was too busy preparing her son for the elements to notice the pained expression on his face — talk of demons always reminded him that some people in the village still veered away from him on the roads and in the corner shop, thinking him a demon of some kind.

            So he simply nodded when needed, adding a small “Yes, Mama’n” whenever she seemed to be waiting for a reply and soon he was dressed in thick winter trousers, his special navy coat, a warm knitted scarf, and a large white cap which successfully covered his larger than ‘normal’ ears, though they still swiveled against his will, often knocking the hat askew.

            “There,” his mother said, patting his head and handing him his mittens. “Off you go then, my love, the circus only comes around these parts every ten years or so. I heard that last time one came the knife-thrower swallowed a long sword, whole!”

            The boy’s eyes lit up and his cap was knocked off his head by the straightening of his excited ears. “Whoa,” he gasped, resituating his hat.

“Oh, John,” his mother sighed, tucking one of his velvet ears back under the hat. “Just make sure that you be careful, okay? Carnival folk are nice enough, but they collect rare things, and you, my love, are a gem. Keep out of trouble and never take your hat off.”

He nodded at her words, barely listening, as almost every other thing out of her mouth was a cautionary phrase or motherly quip. She patted him on the head once more, turned him about, and pushed him by his bottom in the direction of the door. A giggle rose in his throat and he sprinted from the warmth of the kitchen, almost making it all the way out the house before turning around and exclaiming with great urgency, “Mama’n, I need money to get in, don’t I?”

            From deep in the warmth of the cottage, came his mother’s disembodied voice, “In your coat pocket, dear! Come back in time for supper, or I’ll send your sister for you!” He flinched. Harriet was amiable enough, but she was in double digits now and hardly liked to do much of anything that was asked of her, especially not trek through the snow just to retrieve her kid brother.

            “Okay, Mama’n!” He called back into the house and then slammed the door behind him.

The circus had come to the small town in the woods on a bleak winter’s morning. Large tents erected under the cover of the night, colorful shop stalls and games carefully placed to lead potential customers through the fray with the most enticing prizes and treats. By mid-morning the word had gotten out of the impromptu arrival of the traveling circus and the town was abuzz with the welcomed distraction from the cold and the gloom. Bright neon lights lit fallen snow as if it were possessed with some kind of magic and all who were able, flocked the establishment, bundled in heavy winter coats.

The snow was falling like the powdered sugar that his mother dusted over her cakes as John Watson scampered towards his small group of friends who crowded around a ring-toss game, mugs of hot chocolate in hand.

“I’m crap at this,” whined Timothy, who only had one red wooden ring left.

“Wow,” John said, popping up next to him to survey his progress, only to find a field of empty bottles and not one of them sported Timothy’s ring color. “You are pretty terrible, aren’t you?”

“Shut it, you berk, I’m trying to concentrate.” Timothy missed again.

John turned away from his friend’s red face before he said anything he might regret. “Has anyone seen the knife-thrower man? My mother told me that he swallows whole swords!”

An impressed gasp resonated through the group of boys but none had seen nor heard of a knife-thrower. “Maybe he’ll come out during the bigger show,” Henry pondered, though he was distracted by a tent which donned a sign promising Siamese twins, and he wandered away from the group.

Taking it as an opportunity to explore and perhaps find the knife-thrower man, John bid his friends goodbye for now and branched off from the group as well, meandering through the crowds of townspeople. He began to rationalize: if anyone were to know where the knife-thrower man was, it would be the ringleader. Now, he’d never been to a circus before, but his mother had told him enough in his eleven years, and seen enough in picture books that his sister used to read to him. He was looking for a tall man with big trousers, high boots, and a long, red coat — possibly also in possession of a rather long top hat and an impressive mustache. No one seemed to fit the bill and John was beginning to give up hope when he spotted a few tents and wagons stationed outside of the obvious carnival boundaries: the troop’s camping ground! If the ringleader wasn’t entertaining, then surely he was getting ready to entertain, after all it was only half past noon. He made his way, being cautious, like his mother said, and creeping around the circled wagons and smaller tents.

John went for the biggest and grandest wagon, wooden frames carved and painted to depict scenes from what he assumed were normal carnival events — roaring lions, men stacked at high as buildings, acrobats swinging over tanks of sharks. This, surely, was only fit of the man with the big hat, the ringleader. Climbing up the steps, John fixed his hat, just in case, and rehearsed his request to see the knife-thrower man. With a quivering, mittened hand, he knocked timidly at first on the heavy door and then harder a second time. Neither knock was answered. Gathering his courage, John gave a push at the door and stepped into the dimly lit room on wheels.

“H-hello?” He turned behind him, looking out of the door to see if anyone had seen him enter and then promptly shut it behind him. From deeper in the wood framed room came a rustling which gave poor John a fright and he grabbed for his cap as his ears had nearly flicked it off his head again. “Mister Ringmaster, sir?”

A small voice from the deepest recesses of the long room muttered bitterly, almost to itself. “ _He’s not here._ ” John wouldn’t have been able to hear it if his hat was on properly, but one of his keen, freed ears picked up the sound waves and amplified them for him.

He took a step further into the dimness. “Oh,” he said, now curious about this strange disembodied voice. “What about the knife-thrower man? Do you happen to know where he is?’

A sudden rattling of chains surprised him almost as soon as a small figure, just about his height actually, stumbled from the darkness and into the light of the single candle which lit the room. The other boy had ears and a tail, like him, and the shock in itself was enough to make him gasp, loosing his footing and collapsing to the hard wooden floor. This did not detour the other boy though and he got as close to John as he could before the iron collar around his neck jerked him back by the connecting chain, at which point the boy seated himself to meet John’s eye on the floor.

John opened his mouth, completely inclined to question the jingling chains, which held what looked to be another forest creature, but the other boy cut him off. “ _You can understand me_ ,” he muttered, staring intently at John, his large brown ears straightening off the sides of his head as his brows furrowed; he was deep in thought. John’s small bat ears twitched below his white cap and he attempted to explain, again beginning to form the words when he was cut off yet again. “ _But you’re human, clearly, an idiot at best like all the rest, how is this possible?_ ” The fawn’s words sounded like the whispering in the wind that he heard sometimes, from beneath whatever hat his mother happened to put on his head. His ears strained to translate for him.

“Oi, I am not an idiot!” He sit up straighter crossed his sprawled legs.

“ _Oh, don’t be like that, every human is_ ,” the fawn creature waved an uninterested, chained hand at John as he continued to think but paused immediately after, noticing the twitch of velvet ears beneath John’s hat. Gasping, the boy’s eyes widened and he clapped his hands under his chin in triumph. “ _But you’re not, are you? Ugh_ ,” he sighed and attempted to reach forward and snatch John’s hat from his head but his chains did not permit the movement. “ _It’s always something. Come now, remove that cap, you’ll be able to hear me better._ ”

Still in a bit of shock, though not enough to hinder his motor functions, John simply scooted forward, sitting less than a foot from the other creature, blushing as he pulled his hat off to release his small bat ears. They perked up as soon as they were freed and swiveled towards the fawn as if daring him to speak again to prove their worth.

A small smile graced the fawn creature’s lips and he reached both hands forward to caress the delicate, thin ears. “ _Myotis lucifugus_ ,” he muttered to himself, his smile widening just slightly at the opportunity for proper categorization of his fellow forest creature.

“What?” John’s slight blush had bloomed as the other creature’s face was inches from his, elbows resting on his shoulders as he muttered Latin like some possessed thing.

“ _Little brown bat! Little brown myotis, do you not know your own genus?_ ” Sherlock chuckled, rustling the sandy blond hair that grew haphazardly around his small pointed ears.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about but you’d better stop calling me little, or we’re going to have a problem.” One of his eyebrows twitched and his ears flattened just slightly in annoyance before bouncing back up under the fawn’s caress.

            Sherlock’s chains sung tiny song of his capture as he moved to hold either side of John’s face. With a sign, he brought their foreheads together and he closed his eyes, changing his language to that of humans. “We already have a problem, John.”

            “How’d you-.”

            “Your mother writes you name on all your clothing, don’t be dull,” Sherlock twitched, eyes still closed. He could feel the heat in John’s face and he would have taken the time to giggle at it but there were more pressing issues to attend to. “My name is Sherlock, in case you were going to ask, and you were, so shush. Now that you’re here I think I can escape much easier.”

            John pulled off his mittens to reveal more of himself, dark brown fur covered his short pointed fingers, and he mirrored Sherlock’s hands, lightly clamping his hands at either side of the fawn’s face and pushing their faces apart so that they could see each other in the dim light. Their eyes locked, Sherlock’s wide with slight surprise and John’s filled with the determination, which rose in his chest.

            “What do you need me to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning into something of a longer story than I had originally intended. No matter.  
> Just a note, I plan to shove just about everything into this fic, because I can't make up my mind about things. So, there will be fluff, angst, and smut. Maybe in that order...Maybe not. I hope I'm doing these AU character's justice, I think I'm finally getting the hang of them. Also, if anyone's interested, I've figured that the location is some place not disimilar to Canada (yay).
> 
> Okay, friends, I am gone.  
> Cheers!


End file.
